


it happened quiet

by Saraptor



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Good Omens, Demon Izuna, Fluff and Angst, Good Omens AU, Ineffable Husbands - HashiMada Edition, M/M, Nanny Madara, Principality Hashirama, demon madara, yeah you read that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2021-01-03 21:33:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21186323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saraptor/pseuds/Saraptor
Summary: There was no difference between the view from above and the view from below—only gradients. As perfect hands gripped perfect wings and spilled golden ichor, the Principality Hashirama doubted which of them was worse.





	it happened quiet

**Author's Note:**

> I have no explanation other than I really like Good Omens and the Founders. Also Madara in a pencil skirt.
> 
> The title is from AURORA, It Happened Quiet, which is SUCH a Good Omens song btw. It radiates Good Omens energy.

Heaven was never cold. It wasn't very warm, either. Ambivalent was a good word to describe Heaven, followed by timeless and punctuated by boredom.

Glossy, monochromatic structures that Hashirama was once convinced himself was the paradise every person strove for, now left him with a feeling of unease. He'd never taken much pleasure from reporting to the _higher ups_, so to speak, seeing as they were quite literally _higher up_ than him, but now it was a practice of willful torment. This was what the dentist must have felt like, for humans. Horribly tedious, unfortunately necessary, even when one brushed their teeth.

Only, Hashirama didn't need to brush his teeth, and he didn't need a dentist. So why, asked a voice that sounded very familiar, did he bother with Heaven?

He was a principality. He could have been more, of course. The potential had lurked within him, a potential energy like the gasp of a star going supernova, but had chosen something smaller. It made him dear to the Almighty. With the favor of _Her_, came the passive aggressive sideways looks of the other denizens of Heaven. They gave him well wishes in the exact same way a coworker passed up for a good promotion might give them out. Strained smiles and critical eyes followed him.

Now, if he was blameless, their scrutiny would have been a nonissue. He had not been blameless since the seventh day of his first job.

"You're an idiot," had been the demon's first words to him, upon learning Hashirama had given away his flaming sword to the early humans. Red eyes, delicate patterns like flowers pinwheeling round and round, had stared at him. Set against a pale face and raven hair that did not reflect light, so much as it absorbed it, he was a striking figure. "I don't even need a calculator to put two and two together and come out with _that was a bad idea_."

Hashirama spent much of that century moping. The next two millennia were a roller coaster of ups and downs that steadily, slowly, lost altitude with each descent. It was a cycle of events that always seemed they could have easily been avoided. Communication was one of those nifty inventions that Heaven had never really taken to, unless it was choir. They did love their choir.

Only, they had cast out some of the best singers, so choir was down most of their sopranos and altos. The baritone choruses weren't _terrible_, but the demons with the highest range were—well, demons. They lived in hell, and certainly weren't in the habit of taking gigs in Heaven.

The point was, Hashirama was thoroughly disenchanted with Heaven. He preferred Earth to about every luxury of Heaven. Earth had _yuzu_. Earth had small cakes. It had those indie pop bands that really needed more attention. Heaven was a place of bliss and tranquility, and not much else.

Hashirama had the speech memorized. Sins abated, good spread, demons vanquished. The works.

For once, the speech wasn't necessary. There was a semi-circle of angels waiting for him on his arrival. They were all Archangels, headed by Danzo. He was one of the oldest Archangels in service, scarred from the battle long past—the battle that cast out a good third of Heaven's forces. Hashirama knew he'd personally thrown Madara out of Heaven himself.

Standing in the center of the semicircle, like a miniature silver sun, or maybe a prisoner, was Tobirama. He was bone-white, pale ruby eyes stark against his face. The drawn, hollowed look he gave Hashirama sank a mercurial stone in his gut. It was the same look Madara gave him the night he announced the Antichrist was born.

"Principality Hashirama," said Danzo politely, nodding his eyes. His single good eye was hooded, gnarled hands clasped on an elegantly carved staff. "We welcome you, though I fear it is with heavy hearts."

"Oh?" said Hashirama, beaming on reflex. "Bad news? Something to do with the antichrist, I suppose?"

Tobirama opened his mouth—stopped, then closed it. That was alarming by itself. Not to be mistaken with tactlessness, but he was not the sort of person to hesitate when there was something to be said.

"Nothing to do with the boy," said Danzo coolly. He had been the most against Hashirama's attempt at swaying the Antichrist to the light.

"What's going on?" said Hashirama, searching his brother's face for answers. He budged forward—only, he couldn't budge. His feet were stuck firmly to the ground. Inky lines spread out around him.

Horror dropped over him. Ice curled up his spine. Tobirama stared at him, such a tortured look of grief on his face that Hashirama hadn't seen since the deaths of their brothers, since the great rebellion that cost them most of Heaven and more, still.

Tobirama sounded hoarse, as though he was being actively strangled. "I'm sorry. Don't move, brother."

Every angel had imagined it at least once. Falling. The tear of hands on their wings, the spray of golden ichor, a ringing cry that faded into a screech belonging only to the underworld. Hashirama was no different than any other angel in that regard. Only, he'd probably imagined it far more than other angels. He had given Adam and Eve the flaming sword, after all. He played a game with Heaven and Hell that had one eventual outcome and _one alone_, and yet it still came as a surprise.

It was easy to imagine falling, really. It was harder to accept its possibility.

Wings spread afar, countless wings, gleaming and pearlescent. Eyes rolled open. Hashirama reacted on impulse, his wings flaring outward, all six of them. There was power in his blood that said he could fight them off. He could do it. But—he was _loyal_.

Then, the hands reached out. Then, the wings were gripped. Ichor was spilled.

It was not Hashirama's blood.

Those were not Hashirama's wings.

And that was not Hashirama's scream.

Tobirama let out a sound that no creature should ever have to hear. It was the cry of a dying angel, the birth of a demon, the fall of something so precious that even the Almighty would weep a tear at its sound.

The ground opened up and darkness reached out, tendrils of living shadow, wrapped around Tobirama delicately and softly. He was dragged down, kicking and screaming, because even if he'd accepted it was happening, he hadn't _accepted it_.

Inky scrawls of seals, Tobirama's specialty, the laws of the universe, kept Hashirama in place. There was no other person who could have kept him subdued. His aura had flared gold and pale green, hair flying around his face in great locks, skin glowing bronze and feathers enveloping the room. It was Tobirama's regard to Heaven, his willingness to protect _Hashirama_, even as he had walked to the gallows, that kept the other angels from being torn to pieces by the backlash of Hashirama's power.

He was a principality in name only. Three weeks later, when the seal had finally worn off, as Hashirama's power dwindled, he stepped out of the circle. A gleaming, perfectly tiled floor mocked him where the entrance to Hell had gaped open.

"Why?" he spoke to open space.

He wasn't expecting a reply.

"Do you want to know?" came Toka's quiet alto tones.

"I think I deserve that much," he said with numbed lips.

Toka stepped around him, so they were eye to eye. She'd always been fair, no-nonsense. With her back to the windows, she was silhouetted, so she cast a shadow as dark as her eyes, light reflecting off mousy hair.

"A law infraction," she finally sighed. "For the angel who created law to break them—the punishment was…"

She had probably protested the decision. An angel hadn't fallen since the Great Rebellion, after all. To cast one out, especially one of such power and regard, as the End Times approached, was inadvisable. That would be her logic. Hashirama, to be very blunt, didn't give a damn about logic at the moment.

No one stopped him as he left Heaven. They didn't give him enough thought for it.

There was someone on Earth he needed to talk to, desperately.

"Out of the frying pan, into the fire, eh?"

Across the world, sympathy zones varied depending on the people living there. If a group of particular empathetic people banded together, they could create a rather nice, light-spirited area. However, the opposite could also be true, with enough ill-tempered folks.

Between the combined sour attitudes Madara and Izuna, most of London had become a sympathy-free zone.

"Madara, dear, please," said Hashirama, a hair away from begging.

They were gathered in the backroom of Hashirama's flower shop. He'd closed up early to figure out their conundrum, dialing the only two people in the world he knew could help him. Unfortunately, he should have anticipated their reactions to the news.

Madara had curled up on the sofa. One leg was crossed over the other, inspecting his nails with the deliberation of one who was definitely didn't care about their nails. He'd gotten off work recently, evidenced by his stockings and pencil skirt. They'd been playing their tag-team game of raising the Antichrist for almost six years now, and Hashirama hadn't gotten tired of the nanny outfit.

Normally, he would like to take the time to goggle his friend. While it was true he was a celestial being without a true mortal form, he could appreciate Madara in high heels and cherry lipstick. He was sure many could appreciate it. (_Could_, he thought a little smugly. But wouldn't.)

It really wasn't the time for such things. That, and for all Hashirama's power, he wasn't eager to test Izuna.

Izuna, who was glaring at him from across the room, arms crossed over his chest. He had his brother's raven hair, tamed into a low-hanging tail down his back. He was also into the _fashion_, as he called it, which seemed to consist of a lot of jackets and heeled boots.

"Your brother cast us out of heaven," said Izuna. "You know. Tore our wings off."

"Er—Well—"

When they put it like that, he could see where the distrust was coming from.

"What a _hypocrite_," said Izuna. "The angel who _invented laws_ broke the laws. I'm a little impressed, actually."

Madara let out a vague noise of annoyance.

"I know there's some bad blood—"

"A lot of it, really."

"—but I really need your help," said Hashirama, clasping his hands, abandoning all pretenses. He was begging now. It was his _brother_. He could do no less. "You can't _want_ leave him to Hell, right?"

Madara lifted his crimson eyes, pinwheel pupils spinning around. He arched one finely shaped eyebrow.

Their willingness to leave Tobirama to the depths of the underworld was actually quite possible. Neither of the demon brothers needed to speak it out loud. In all practicality, it was not strictly prudent going to them for help. They were demons, bound by the laws of Hell. Punishers down below would rub their hands with glee at the chance of getting their hands on Madara and Izuna.

Even in the early days, back when they were Spots and Weasel, their standing with Hell was shaky. They hadn't ridden with the bulk of the Rebellion's forces, instead opting skulk around in the shadows, waiting to see where the wind would blow. It hadn't served them much good. They were cast out of Heaven anyway, and were declared cowards by the denizens of Hell.

Once, in the twelfth century, Madara had noted they had humanity to thank for their new standing with Hell. "I'm certainly not creative enough to think of this. I was going to try and manipulate Satan's memories."

Hashirama had, quite justifiably, he thought, had a _fit_ of panic.

"That sounds like a _very_ bad idea."

"That's what Izuna said, too."

"Who?"

"My brother, Izuna. How many times will I have to remind you?"

That had been a very long time ago. Perhaps not _quite_ as long to the mind of an angel as it was to a human, but still—long enough to be noteworthy. His friendship with Madara had lasted long enough to be noteworthy. It was that fact which had him holding Madara's eyes squarely, steadily.

A soft groan escaped Madara, tilting his head back. His hair cascaded over the edge of the sofa, straggling to the floor.

"I suppose I owe you."

"Actually, I owe you," Hashirama beamed cheerfully. "Bulgaria. 1877. But, thank you so much, dear."

Izuna let out a disgusted sound. "You're so sappy."

"Izuna, can you take care of it?" said Madara, head lolled in a way that was decidedly lazy. He yawned into the back of his hand.

"What? _Me!?_" Izuna pushed off the wall, outrage his curled shoulders. "He asked _you_—"

"I'm busy," said Madara blandly. "I'm currently babysitting the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is—"

"Alright, I get it," said Izuna, rolling his eyes. He buttoned up his jacket, sweeping towards the door with a great flourish of the maroon leather. "You owe _me_, then."

The door slammed shut behind him, as Madara sat upright in the sofa. He uncoiled his legs, a frown marring his forehead.

"I'm going to regret this," he said.

Hashirama sat next to him, humming noncommittally.

"Wait one damned second, why do _I_ owe him?" Madara shouted suddenly, jumping to his feet. "He's getting _your_ brother!"

It took a small miracle and a very large stock of Hashirama's best wine to smooth out his ruffled feathers. Metaphorically speaking, of course. Madara rarely manifested his wings.

Halfway through the night, as worry gnawed at Hashirama's gut through the haze of alcohol, a hand stroked through his hair. Demons, as a rule, did not love, but Madara loved deeply and wholeheartedly. His soft side was something of an urban legend. Most didn't even know it existed. The ones who suspected couldn't know for sure, and the ones who knew kept it a secret.

Those tender moments were reserved for special people. Izuna solely, at first. Centuries had worn and if Hashirama allowed himself the smallest drop of pride, it was for his persistence.

Maybe, had they the time, it would become family of four. Doomsday approached and every day, their mission to make the Antichrist a normal boy felt as though it was careening wildly out of control. But, Hashirama hoped. He was an angel, after all.

Well past midnight, the wine in their bodies returned to the bottles with no-one the wiser, Madara received a call. He unwound himself from Hashirama's torso, pushing matted hair off his forehead, to fumble around his purse for the phone. It was one of the fancier new ones, given to him by Izuna, who tirelessly kept up with the trends with each new year.

"What?" he said gruffly into the screen.

Izuna's face flashed on it. He was mouthing something.

"—muted it, idiot—"

"_Oi_," Madara protested.

"There we go!" Izuna crowed triumphantly. "I knew you'd get the hang of it eventually."

"Oh, shut up."

"What were you doing anyway? You're all flushed—actually, wait, no. I don't want to know," said Izuna, trampling on as Madara went red in earnest. He was wrestling with something off-camera, something that was strong enough to jerk him around bodily. "Would you _quit it_—_Satan_, you're so embarrassing—"

Tobirama was yanked forcibly in front of the screen.

"You're alive!" Hashirama burst out, blinking rapid-fire as his eyes dampened. He laughed, out of pure incredulousness and relief. "I was _worried_—are you hurt? Did anything happen?"

"Oh, please," said Izuna, before Tobirama could reply, earning himself a dark scowl that promised murder. "He was fine. Mito got ahold of him."

Hashirama gave a twitchy little smile. "Mito. The—Er—_That_ Mito?"

"The fox demon, yes," said Izuna smugly, all too amused. "You know, she's actually not that bad."

"She tried to kill us on three separate occasions," said Madara in a deadpan, looking entirely done with Izuna's antics. "Just bring his brother here. I want to get this over with soon as possible."

Tobirama finally managed to get a word in. "_Don't_ strain yourself on my account. I don't want to be around you, either."

Before an argument could break out, and Madara destroyed another of his devices, Hashirama snatched the phone away. It earned him a heated glare. He let it roll off him, because if Madara was really upset with him, he would have ended up on fire.

"Are you sure you're well?" he asked.

The quality of the video call was grainy. Izuna and Tobirama whirled through what appeared to be a clothing store. They stopped once, and Hashirama got a glimpse of his pale face. New streaks of crimson ran down his cheekbones and chin.

"I'm fine, I swear," said Tobirama, once they were still long enough for him to talk clearly. He sounded sheepish as he added, "And I got to speak with Orochimaru, anyway. His theories are surprisingly comprehensive, and the things he's done with—"

"I called dibs on Orochimaru ages ago," said Izuna idly. "Hands off."

Madara shoved in front of the phone again, going red so quickly that, demon or not, Hashirama was concerned about his blood pressure.

"Have you lost your mind? No, really—that _thing_ is insane!" Madara yelled into the receiver, as Izuna rolled his eyes, pointedly ignoring him. "Don't even _think_ of going near Orochimaru! He'll kill you!"

"Oh, please," said Izuna. "As if you haven't thought about it. You've seen what he can do with his tongue—"

Madara gave an offended splutter, bristling so much it was a wonder he wasn't a porcupine demon.

There was a dry hum from Tobirama, a flash of blankness that Hashirama recognized all-too well. It usually accompanied somethin particularly scathing.

"I already know what he can do with his tongue," said Tobirama, pulling out a large, fur-lined jacket without missing a beat. "I think I like this one."

Horrified, Hashirama ended the call as Izuna processed everything his brother had said, an outrage flashing on his face that really brought out the resemblance to Madara. Hashirama placed the phone on the sofa next to him gingerly, as though it was tainted. _Don't think about Orochimaru_, he told himself. And most of all, _don't think about his _brother _and Orochimaru_. It had only been a handful of _weeks_ at the most, since Tobirama had fallen. Had he just strolled into Hell, taken one look at Orochimaru and—no. No, Hashirama didn't want to know.

The hand had returned to stroking Hashirama's hair. London, as a whole, was still vastly unsympathetic, but at that moment it was a little less so. If nothing else, they could bond over equally infuriating, mortifying little brothers.

Outside, a sunny rainstorm had begun. It was the sparkling kind of drizzle that scared most people in, leaving the streets abandoned and cast in a golden haze. Hashirama opened his windows to let in a fresh breeze, the smell of petrichor always a source of comfort after a rain. The flowers always needed attending, encouraged by gentle words and soft touches, and Madara was contented to follow by him. While he couldn't understand the need nurture, or didn't care to, he took fascination enough through watching the flowers unfurl.

Hashirama liked to believe his decision to stay close was out of unconditional love, and maybe he was correct. It could also have something to do with his gambling habits. Money was kept under a tight lock, installed by Madara, and key, held by Madara. It was an unspoken rule that Hashirama was not allowed to spend money on his own, ever. Hashirama spent quite a lot of money, so Madara spent quite a lot of time following him. Tellingly, Madara never saw fit to complain.

"Can you believe it? _That_ boy—the Antichrist?"

"I can't believe I put up with _years_ of Deidara's arson for _nothing_," snarled Madara, slamming the car door shut once he'd swung inside. "I can't tell you how many times I thought he'd discorporate me."

Hashirama, who had been the family gardener the same amount of time that Madara was young Deidara's nanny, understood completely. He nodded placatingly, because Madara was in a _mood_.

"_Look_ at him," said Madara, shoving a hand so hard that he jammed his fingers against the window. Biting off a curse, he clutched his hand close.

Pretending not to see the slight, sideways look thrown his way, Hashirama cradled his hand. The bone fixed itself—a miracle.

Madara mumbled his faintly embarrassed gratitude.

Outside, the Antichrist—the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan and Lord of Darkness—was egging his best friends into his latest hairbrained game. Naruto came up with some of the strangest ideas, mind twisting and turning in countless, overwhelming directions. As the child who had been destined to bring about the end of the world forever, it stood to reason he was a little _different_.

Naruto was curious in how he wasn't different. He was very much a normal boy. He disliked chores, he was alright in school, but didn't get the top grades. A very close circle of friends followed him, undyingly loyal. His upbringing was a confusing affair, starting with the baby mix-up of the universe, and transitioning halfway through in an abrupt adoption to Iruka Umino, a regular school teacher.

A regular school teacher who studied philosophy, was an environmental activist, pacifist, and frequently volunteered for the community. He also had an on-going "fling" with Zabuza Momochi, which had lasted five years and showed no signs of stopping. Zabuza had sort of face that made people immediately suspect he was a murderer. It was only slightly circumvented by the tiny apprentice at his side, Haku.

Haku was kind and soft spoken. He had grabbed Naruto by the ear and told him, under no uncertain terms, _never_ to go stark-raving-mad in the middle of town again. He had then proceeded to stab War through the chest with her own blade.

The entire town was completely insane. Hashirama and Madara hadn't even really been _needed_.

Madara angled his head around in the seat, lips quirking into a languid smile that showed just a hint of teeth.

"How about we get wasted?"

After the events of the past few days, that sounded like a wonderful idea. For the first time ever, Hashirama broke the speed limit.

It wasn't heaven and it wasn't hell, but it was very near perfect.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still ironing out some details in case I want to do companion pieces, but I was thinking:
> 
> 1\. Konan Device, as the Occultist.  
2\. Tsunade's "curse" extends to computers.  
3\. Orochimaru is sort of the Beelzebub-character of Hell.  
4\. Tobirama and Orochimaru knew each other before the Fall.  
5\. Hashirama is the Almighty's favorite, I don't make the rules.  
6\. The Them are Naruto, Sasuke, Sakura, and Haku.  
7\. And Sargent Shadwell is Kakuzu with Madame Tracy being Hidan. Just. fjekwlafehjk That dynamic has me in stitches!


End file.
